


Lemonade (For My Real Friends)

by stardustandswimmingpools



Series: pietro lives 'verse [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Gen, Introspection, Male-Female Friendship, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, On Clint's Part, Post-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), but mostly compliant, except that pietro is alive, found family of sorts, i cannot stress enough the significance of the lemonade, i'm a lefty and i get to project if i want to, lemonade, lemonade as plot device, lemonade banter, natasha and clint are both left-handed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-06-11 23:07:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15326418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardustandswimmingpools/pseuds/stardustandswimmingpools
Summary: Natasha makes a surprise visit.





	Lemonade (For My Real Friends)

**Author's Note:**

> did i make the title a crossover between lemonade and a fall out boy song title reference? 100% yes, i absolutely did. but you know what? it's my fic and i can do what i want.  
> this is a sequel to Extra Years, which I guess you don't HAVE to have read to understand this - all you need to know is that everything is the same post-AoU except Pietro is alive, and Clint decides to go home. This is largely just fluff - please enjoy!

“And she threw you against a wall? Like, an actual wall?”

Natasha nods. “I walked it off. She was really sorry. Said she didn’t mean to. It’s not the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.” She certainly doesn’t need to tell  _ him _ that.

“God, those kids are gonna kill someone if they’re not careful,” Clint says, whistling lowly in disbelief.

Natasha shrugs through the videophone. “They’re alright. They’re learning. The Captain is better with them than I am. More patience or whatever. Plus his whole ‘I don’t like bullies’ shtick. Apparently neither do they.”

“What, and you do like bullies?”

“I kind of  _ am _ a bully,” Nat points out.

Clint harrumphs. He deliberately skirts around the thing she’s actually referencing. No point in going down the I-was-once-an-actual-assassin road. “Fighting crime and homicidal gods is not the same as being a bully. Anyway, if anything, Cap is more of a bully than you are.”

“Yeah, but he has this whole thing about his moral compass, and I don’t want to get down on him for it,” she says thoughtfully. “I mean, he’s like a hundred years old. I figured I’d throw him a bone.”

“Fair enough.” Clint furrows his brow and strains his ears. There's a low, steady rumbling in the background of the video call. He frowns. “Are you on a jet?”

Nat shakes her head. “A/C broke yesterday. Cap tried to fix it and instead broke it more. It's been making an awful sound all day. I just picture it as Stark making sounds of increasing desperation as he tries to lift Mjolnir. It takes the edge off some.”

Clint grimaces in sympathy, although the mental picture of Cap trying to fix the air conditioning — and the subsequent look of utter bewilderment — does make him laugh. So does the image of Stark grousing in distress with both palms wrapped around Mjolnir and one foot propped up on the table.

“Still no word from Banner?”

Nat shakes her head. Clint can tell she's making a legitimate effort not to appear dejected, which Clint respects, but when you're friends with someone as long as they've been...it's hard to hide that.

“He went completely off the radar,” she says, businesslike. “We’ve got about a million facial recognition programs running on him, and every camera in every country is eyes for us, but…” she shrugs. “He's disappeared.”

“And that thing in the ocean?” Clint asks. “The one Fury mentioned?”

Nat sighs. “Dead end. It was a Quinjet, but not the one Bruce was in. You know Stark, he likes his test runs.” She gives him a tired smile. Then, brusquely, the ordeal is sidelined. “How’s Laura? And the kids?”

Clint doesn't bother fighting off the smile that breaks surface on his face. He picks up the videophone and says, “See for yourself.” 

Laura is outside with Nathaniel in a modified car seat, weeding and gardening, and Cooper has been manipulated out with her by the promise of getting to eat the tomatoes. But Lila is just watching TV (Stark had generously offered a high-definition television and fast  Wi-Fi as Clint’s housewarming gift of sorts, among other...accommodations), so Clint falls down on the couch beside her and stretches out, deliberately sliding the videophone with Nat’s amused face past Lila’s eyes. “Ah,” he fake-yawns. “Hmm, what's on?”

“Auntie Nat!” Lila screeches. Natasha laughs.

“Hey, kiddo,” she says affectionately. It has always been a favorite pastime of Clint’s to watch Nat interact with his children. “How's it hanging?”

The doorbell rings. Clint frowns. If Cooper locked himself out again, Clint’s going to have words. He grabs the remote and silences the TV, then passes the videophone off to Lila. “Don't break this,” he says. “You guys have a nice talk. I'm gonna let Cooper in.”

“Where is the little rascal?” Nat asks, arching an eyebrow.

Cint rolls his eyes. “He  _ was  _ in the garden with Laura. Give me a minute.”

As he stands and makes his way to the door, listening to Nat and Lila’s chatter as background noise, he wraps his fingers around the bow on the table by the door. It's an instinctive reaction. This is a safe and secret house, even more so with Stark’s newly installed security measures, but the opportunity for knowledge of it to be spread around increased by 700% when he brought the Avengers here. Stark counts as two.

There's an arrow lying by the bow, and Clint grabs that, too, and silently nocks it. Outside the door there's talking in a low voice, a voice that sounds nothing like Cooper’s. Clint’s fingers tighten on his bow. He peers through the peephole.

“Son of a bitch,” he mutters, grinning to himself, and tosses the bow and arrow back onto the table as he swings the door open.

“You weren't going to shoot me, were you?” Natasha says, the picture of innocence.

“Nat?” Clint hears, a half-step higher than Lila’s usual chirp, through the videophone in Nat’s hands.

“Son of a —”

“Your kid’s on,” Nat reminds him, smirking.

Clint sighs, exasperated. He grabs the videophone and hits  _ end call. _

“Auntie Nat? Hello?” This time Lila’s voice comes from the living room, and she sounds hurt and confused.

It takes Clint a moment to register Natasha, standing there, solid and real, in front of him. He's struck by how much he's missed having her around. He wouldn't trade his family for anything, but Natasha’s basically family, and spending two months away from her has been confusing, to say the least. 

She's got him trapped in a hug before he can make the move, and he sighs through an ironic grin. “Good to see you, Nat.”

She hugs him a little tighter. “You too. Avengers aren't the same without you.”

“Aw, don't get sentimental on me,” Clint says, stepping back with a smirk.

Nat smacks him upside the head. “I wanted to surprise you. Did it work?”

“Surprise is your M.O.,” Clint allows.

Lila takes this moment to peer around the wall between the living room and the entryway. Her eyes widen in glee. “Auntie Nat! You're here!”

“Sure am,” Natasha says, dropping the sly, slim posture and adopting a warm exterior in the space of a second. She crouches over. “C’mere, you little squirt!”

Lila squeals and runs over, leaping into Natasha’s arms in a way that would knock over anyone without the impeccable balance Nat has refined for years. “I'm so happy you're here!” she says giddily. “I just read a book and it was about a spy and I kept on thinking of you!”

“Awesome!” Nat enthuses. “I just read a book too. It was about a superhero with the cutest daughter in the world. The only thing was she was  _ super  _ ticklish.”

Lila’s eyes grow big with anticipation. “Really?”

Nat smiles slyly. “The little girl’s name was  _ Lila Barton! _ ” She sticks her fingers into Lila’s sides. Lila lets out a shriek and collapses into a puddle of giggles. She squirms under Nat’s deft tickling claws, writhing with laughter on the floor through exclamations of “Stop!” that  directly contradict the goofy grin on her face.

Clint allows this to happen in his front hallway. Maybe he  _ is  _ getting soft in his old age.

Suddenly the door bursts open with astonishing force and Nat springs away from Lila, hand already ready with the gun from what must have been her waistband.

There stands Laura, brandishing a PPK .380, eyes narrowing in mistrust, then panic, and then a mixture of relief and irritance. 

Both women put down their guns and Laura exhales loudly. “Jesus,” she says, putting a hand on her forehead. “I heard the screaming, I thought…”

“Just me,” Nat says calmly. She tucks her gun back into her waistband and smooths out her tank top. “Sorry. Should’ve called?”

“No, no, it’s alright,” Laura says, smiling, brushing hair out of her face. “It’s great to see you, Nat.”

“You too,” Nat says. “Clint told me to stop by anytime, so here I am.”

“Yup, here you are,” Laura says. “Hey, Lila, are you happy Auntie Nat’s here?”

“So so so so happy!” Lila shouts, eyes squeezing shut in her impassioned proclamation. Clint laughs and scoops her up.

“Oof! You’re getting big,” he teases. “Almost too big for daddy to carry you.”

Lila sticks her tongue out and crosses her eyes. “Pbbhhtttht.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He sets her on her feet. “How about you go help mommy and Cooper in the garden? Nat and I will make you guys lemonade, okay?”

Laura smiles warmly at him. That smile never fails to heat him up to the core, so he smiles back. Nat nudges him and smirks.

“Thanks, honey,” Laura says, kissing his cheek. “Love you. Come on, Lila, you wanna plant the basil?”

“What’s basil?”

Their voices carry out the door and around the house, until it’s just Nat and Clint in the front hall.

“Well,” he says, “I hope you know how to make lemonade, ‘cause I sure as hell do not.”

* * *

“So where’s Nathaniel?” Nat says conversationally as she slices a lemon cleanly down the middle. She grinds the center onto the lemon juicer and adeptly spins it back and forth. Clint watches the lemon juice trickle down into the glass container below.

“Helping Laura,” Clint says. He shoots a meaningful glance at Nat. “There’s a loose definition of ‘helping’ in there.”

Nat chuckles as she sets down a thoroughly drained lemon-half and picks up the other half in one swift motion. “If you’re teaching him gardening, you better also be teaching him how to kick ass. Don’t want my namesake to be a softie.”

“What, are you gonna raise a mini-Natasha?”

Nat looks over at him, and her smiles flickers for a moment. “You know I wouldn’t do that. Not to anyone.”

Clint clears his throat. “Yeah.”

There’s an awkward lull as Clint pours a cup of sugar into the saucepan with a cup of water and turns on the stove. Then Nat says, “Where the hell did you get this juicer, and why is it so freakishly good?”

Clint laughs. “Bed, Bath & Beyond. Ten bucks. See? Domestic shopping would do you good.”

“I promise that next time I want to make lemonade, I’ll buy a juicer from Bed, Bath & Beyond,” Natasha says solemnly.

“I think most of the quality of this lemonade is coming from your crazy lemon-juicing skills.” Clint turns the heat all the way up. His tendency for cooking has never been widely acclaimed. This is why he mans the grill.

“I know, I’m pretty good, right?” Natasha tosses a lemon up and catches it with her free hand. It’s also her non-dominant hand — the right —, because her left hand is still grinding the lemon onto the juicer. Clint scoffs. He recalls (dimly, in the back of his mind, like lyrics to a song he hasn’t heard in ages) learning that Natasha’s left-handed, which he’d always remembered because he is also left-handed, and, upon joining the Avengers, they were the only two. Of course she’s equally skilled in both hands, but throw something at her and her reflex is to grab it with her left.

“Are you saying you’ve never made lemonade before?” Clint asks. “Jesus, how long does it take for sugar to dissolve?”

“I made it once before. When I worked for Stark.” She laughs. “Put salt in it. I seriously don’t think he noticed.”

Clint chuckles at that. “He probably liked it better. My guess is salt lines up easy with his bitter personality.”

“True that.”

“Any word from him?”

Natasha raises an eyebrow, wry. “You know Stark. Can’t help himself. It’s the god complex, I’m telling you. He’s worried if he doesn’t show up every so often, we’ll miss him too much to function. He makes appearances at the facility, mostly brief, always flashy.”

“In true Stark fashion,” Clint says with a matching wry smile. “Ah, there we go. What do I do with this solution?”

“Take it off the stove, put it in a cup, put it in the fridge.” Nat swishes her third discarded lemon-half skin into the trash. “And then measure all this lemon juice for me.”

“Yes ma’am. So how are the new Avengers? I was thinking we could call them, like, Avengers 2.0. Like when there’s a new cast in a Broadway show, and it’s the same show, but now there’s a different cast, so everything’s kind of different?”

“Clint, shut up.”

“Shutting up. Why did I heat all this stuff up if it’s just gonna cool down?”

“Do you know anything about cooking? I’m starting to think you don’t.”

Clint rolls his eyes at Nat as he carefully pours the sugar-water solution into a mug shaped like a pokeball. Natasha looks at it with dry amusement.

“Is this what it’s like to have kids?” she says, elbowing him.

“Hey, don’t knock it ‘til you try it.” The instant he says it, he feels the weight settling in his gut and the smile wipes cleanly off his face. “Shit. Misspoke. Sorry.”

Nat doesn’t say anything for a moment, and finishes squeezing the life out of the fourth lemon-half before speaking. “It’s fine,” she says mildly.

Clint still feels badly, but he knows better than to obsess, so instead he slides the mug into the refrigerator and retrieves a measuring cup from the cabinet next to the microwave. “You never answered my question.”

Natasha pries the top off of the lemon juicer and swirls the juice around for a pensive moment before pouring it into Clint’s proffered measuring cup. “They’re making progress. We’re whipping ‘em into shape. I think the Captain and I are good as a team. He does the heavy lifting, and I scare them into compliance.” She smirks, then settles. “Seriously? I think we’ve got a strong new team. Wanda’s getting better at controlling her powers, although we still aren’t exactly sure what those powers are. S.H.I.E.L.D. has run every test under the sun, but you know they’ve never had the biggest knack for neurology or whatever this is. If we had Bruce…” she falters, but recovers — quicker than she had on the videophone. Clint wonders if it’s a process. Every time she stumbles over him, she gets back up faster. It’s only a matter of time before she can say his name smoothly. Clint wonders if she ever even wants to get there. “Pietro healed without a hitch and he likes to run around and fuck with people’s stuff,” she continues, answering Clint’s unspoken question. “Well, he  _ did. _ ‘Til about a week and a half ago.”

“I want to say that I want to know,” Clint says, “but I kind of don’t.”

“No, you don’t,” Nat says. The smirk is back. The facial shift is seamless: innocent, sly, goofy, smooth, worried, and repeat. Clint has a good amount of control over his expressions — he’s not the type to wear his heart on his sleeve — but even he can’t match the authority she exercises over her face. Sometimes he wonders if she sees it as just another tool. Make the right face, make the right feeling.

He hopes, if that’s true, that he is exempt from those who are manipulated by her visage.

“What about the Captain’s friend? Wilson?”

“Sam,” Nat says. “He’s sharp. Also funny. I think he’s good for Steve. God knows that boy needs more emotional support than he’s getting. Guy woke up seven decades from his time and only flinched once. Sam has army experience, he’s a vet, he gets it. It’s good to see the Captain so loose sometimes.”

Clint nods appreciatively. He doesn’t comment on the fact that Nat has called the Captain  _ Steve _ . He does hold up the measuring cup, which clearly shows a distressing shortage of lemon juice. Nat takes the signal and grabs five more lemons. She slices them all in a glint from the silver knife. Clint puts the measuring cup down on the island and leans against it, mentally sifting through the new Avengers. “And…”

“Rhodey,” Nat finishes. “Also sharp. He likes being in the suit, but not in the showy, obnoxious way that Stark does, so…” She shrugs ambiguously. “I’m not worried. We’ve got a good team. The Vision threw me off at first, but hey.” Another shrug. “He’s worthy of ruling Asgard. Who am I to argue with that?”

“Who indeed,” Clint says. “Speaking of which, any word from Thor?”

Nat shakes her head. “Not a peep. No one knows where he went exactly. Selvig says he has an idea, but he doesn’t want to potentially compromise it by telling us, so he won’t.”

“And you’re okay with that? Not knowing?”

Nat fixes him with a piercing gaze. “I’ve lived most of my life on a need-to-know basis. I’m used to it.” Just as Clint is about to break the tension with a joke about her sour attitude (so, all things considered, it’s best he never gets to say it), she drops her eyes. “Besides, I get it. Not wanting to compromise someone you care about.”

Clint can’t pinpoint an exact moment she’s talking about, but he knows that she, of all of the Avengers, understands the most about compartmentalization, about never knowing who to trust with how much. If anyone is going to point fingers about withholding information, it won’t be Nat.

What he does say is, “We’re not very good at making lemonade.”

“If you’d get your ass over here and  _ help, _ this would go a lot faster!”

“We only have one lemon juicer!”

“Well then use your hands!”

“What, do you want seeds in the juice? What kind of maniac are you? ‘Use your hands,’ you know, in this house we aren’t  _ barbarians. _ ” Clint huffs and starts to squeeze the lemon, despite himself, directly into the measuring cup.

“Grumble grumble grumble,” Natasha says nasally. “God, you’re like a ten-year-old. Did you ever learn to tie your shoes?”

“I wear Velcro,” Clint deadpans. “You’re slow.”

“What, are we competing?” Nat sets her jaw. “You’re losing.”

“The other lemons don’t count.”

“I’m counting them.”

“Well, they don’t count, and I make the rules.”

“Says who?”

“Says me. This is my house.”

“Mommy wanted me to give you a message,” Lila says dutifully, primly stepping into the kitchen and startling both of them out of their repartee.

Clint gestures. “Go ahead.”

Lila clears her throat and does her very best impression of Laura. “Ladies, please pick up the pace. It’s very hot out here and if I suspect you two are up to no good I will have your heads.” She grins toothily. Clint laughs. 

“Thanks, sweetie,” he says. “We’re almost done. Auntie Nat is pretty skilled at juicing lemons.”

Lila nods, evidently pleased with herself, and skips back outside.

“‘Pretty skilled,’ huh?” Nat teases.

“Figured I should give you that. Since, you know, you’re losing. Our competition.”

Nat hip-checks him, and Clint maturely sticks out his tongue. “Cheating! I always knew you were a dirty cheater.”

“Hey,” she says, pouting, “Don’t go around saying things like that. I’m a very immaculate cheater. I wash my hands before cheating.”

Somehow, by sheer willpower, they squeeze all ten lemon-halves. Clint pours all of the juice in his measuring cup into the glass bottom of the juicer through a strainer, which catches all the seeds, and then they pour the whole consolidated thing  _ back _ into the measuring cup and Clint checks it. Almost exactly one cup.

“Look at that,” he says, nodding in self-appreciation. “Exactly one cup.”

He holds up a hand and Nat high-fives it wordlessly. “Do you have a pitcher?” she asks.

Clint glances around. “Um.”

* * *

“We bring lemonade!” Clint announces, proudly holding up the plastic water pitcher that has been emptied and refilled with Nat and Clint’s Homemade Lemonade. It has a ring to it.

“Auntie Nat!” Cooper shouts, dropping his kid’s shovel as he races over to her.

“Hehey, buddy,” Nat says, good-naturedly lifting up the kid and spinning him around before depositing him on his feet. “Good to see you. God, you’re tall. You’re almost an adult.”

Cooper giggles. “I know, but mom and dad still won’t let me lock my door! It’s monarchy! No. Wait. Anarchy!”

“Scandalous,” Nat agrees, conspiratorially lowering her voice so Clint can hear. “You should just lock it anyway. Your dad’s a big softie.”

Cooper leans in close, wide-eyed. “I know,” he says, in an almost perfect imitation of her serious tone.

Nat ruffles his hair. “That’s my boy. You guys having a good ol’ gardening time?”

“I helped mom plant basil and she let me eat some tomatoes,” Cooper says, and then launches into a tale about figuring out which tomatoes were good and which ones were just plain gross. Clint crosses the backyard to his wife and sets the pitcher of lemonade onto the small, mosaic-topped garden table. He puts the stack of plastic cups next to it and heaves himself into the chair with a self-satisfied sigh as Laura smiles gratefully.

“That looks delicious,” she says. “Pour me a cup?”

Clint majestically lifts the pitcher into the air and then tilts it enough for the liquid to waterfall into the cup. “M’lady,” he says, and offers it up.

“Why thank you,” Laura says, in the same Renaissance tone. She tips it back and takes a big gulp. “Mm. You should make lemonade more often, honey.”

“I guarantee you, this is 95% Nat.” He kisses her forehead. “Although don’t tell her I said that.”

“It’s our secret.” Nathaniel, peacefully sitting in his makeshift chair next to Laura, suddenly lets out a whine. “Aw, Nathan, d’you want a sip?” To Clint: “Can babies have lemonade? Will I permanently stunt him?”

Clint gives his wife an amused look. “You know, I think it’ll be okay.”

“Don’t you dare mock me,” she says, jabbing an accusing finger at him. “Without me, where would you get your vitamin K?”

“The grocery store,” he says indignantly, “once I figured out what the hell vitamin K was.”

She reaches out and pinches his cheek affectionately. “As I thought.”

“Enjoying the lemonade, kiddo?” Nat says, leaning over the table and addressing Nathaniel as he serenely swallows a sip of Laura’s drink. “You better be. I made it with my own blood, sweat, and tears.”

Laura wrinkles her nose. “None of those things belong in  _ my _ kitchen.”

Nat laughs and pulls out the third chair at the table. She strikes up a conversation with Laura, and Clint sits back and doesn’t really listen. He’s never really been able to shake that primal instinct that is drilled into him, to listen to everything around him, even the small stuff, even the stuff that doesn’t matter. But he doesn’t have to actively pay attention, so he doesn’t. Instead his eyes wander over the red pseudo-ramshackle barn that is desperately in need of a paint job. Maybe that’ll be his next project. If Laura lets him. There’s a lot to do, now, with another kid, and Clint feels like he’s always got one foot out the door, waiting to see some more aliens on the news blowing shit up in New York, or for that fated call from S.H.I.E.L.D. that sweeps him away. He tries as hard as he can to be in the moment, to be there for Laura wherever and whenever the hell she needs it. He thinks he does a pretty bang-up job, especially considering he’s literally a trained superspy. Wife and kids? Not in the job description. Clint has gotten very adroit at juggling of every sense.

But then there are times like before, when the Avengers had (admittedly with permission) stormed his home; like now, with Nat laughing over lemonade with Laura. His wife and his target-turned-best friend. Times when both worlds collide and Clint is left, teetering on the edge where they’d first touched, constantly at risk of falling into one or the other but never quite losing balance.

His head starts to hurt, so he thinks,  _ fuck it, _ pours himself a cup, and joins the conversation.

Maybe he’ll paint the barn with Nat. Maybe tomorrow. 

She will still be here tomorrow.

 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! i'm on tumblr @vivilevone if you want to come talk - that's all for now!


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